Hubert and Pascal's Excellent Adventure
by Salazarfalcon
Summary: In which Hubert and Pascal are big, dumb idiots, someone gets tackled, and both of them discover that everything's best with feelings. M for sexual content.


Hubert and Pascal's Excellent Adventure

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Summary: In which Hubert and Pascal are big, dumb idiots, someone gets tackled, and both of them discover that everything's best with feelings.

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AN: SO. This is my first foray into the erotic and consequently, the first fic I've ever posted that warranted an M-rating. To everyone who clicked on this wondering just what the hell I'm doing with my life…I DON'T EVEN CARE. Legi regret nothing!

This fandom needs more fanfiction, and I'm thrilled to be able to grace it with some sexy shenanigans. Sexy shenanigans that kind of aren't sexy at all.

I like my porn like I like my chocolate chip cookies: delicious and filled with feelings.

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It starts the way most things do in their little group: someone just jumps in.

And honestly, Hubert's pretty used to it by now.

He knows how Pascal is. He knows that for all her intelligence, for all her bluster, for all that she very well may be the smartest person he's ever met or will ever meet in his life, for all that she possesses a sweetness that took him so long to recognize…Hubert Oswell knows that Pascal just doesn't think sometimes. And sometimes, he likes her that way.

Sometimes, he likes her that way even though he hates her that way.

Mostly, he just likes it.

Mostly, he just likes _her_.

He wishes that he could be even a little bit surprised when she comes flying at him from out of nowhere but he's used to it, really. After all, who else at least has the courtesy to scream his name right before she tackles him?

Certainly not Cheria, who's so enamored with his older brother that it's almost embarrassing, or Sophie, who may never actually sort out her feelings for Richard, despite how disgusting the two of them are every so often.

And that's how Hubert ends up flat on his back in the middle of Pascal's workshop.

At this point, he counts himself lucky that he didn't just crack his head open on one of the piles of books she has lying around because of Fourier didn't get after her, she'd likely be buried underneath her own belongings before too long. That or starve to death because sometimes, she just gets so wrapped up in her own research that it makes Hubert worry relentlessly and he hates it because she's older than him and by this time, she ought to know how to take care of herself.

Except, he thinks, that a good part of him likes taking care of her.

And sometimes, he thinks that she likes that he wants to and maybe wants to give him something to do.

Except that finding things to do is the last of Hubert's issues; he's never been one to lay about doing nothing and that hasn't changed since they sorted out the issues with the valkines and dealt with Lambda, and he does still have his position with the Strahtan military. The president has always been strangely lenient with him, but Hubert doesn't think that it hurts that he was part of the whole saving the world thing, so he doesn't worry too much about it.

He does take Hubert's rejection of his daughter's hand unnervingly well, though.

Point being, Hubert worries about Pascal.

He never used to. She's always just been so together, like buoy in a storm: she takes hits and keeps going like it means nothing to her. It's just that when he gets her message, there's something about it that seems so sad. It hurts to see her so thankful to see him when he _does_ arrive.

Oh, it gets his heart pounding because that's just what she does to him. He has to choose her, every time, even when he could have had the president's daughter, because she's just _Pascal_ and no one else seems to compare to her.

She's unspeakably lonely, he knows she is.

Pascal got a taste of adventure on her tongue and, Hubert thinks, of friendship as well. The Amarcians are a close-knit group of people but Pascal's unusual even for them and sometimes, he has to consider when it's all there is, Fourier was never quite enough. He's never asked but he thinks that she didn't have very many friends growing up. Hubert at least at Cheria and Asbel for ten years and then his comrades-in-arms and—well, maybe he's not the best person to be talking about needing more friends.

He thinks Pascal might have actually been the most isolated and took their splitting up the hardest.

The next thing he knows, he's dropping everything to see her because he knows she's left the enclave and Fourier's care, and it's not hard to find her new workshop, a cottage that she's built into the trunk of a massive, hollowed-out tree. It suits her because it came from her own hands, belonging to no one but her.

Pascal is a nightmare for smiths and other engineers and the like, always has been, because half the time she'll just pick something up and make it _better_, and for someone with a lot of pride in what they do, that hurts. So if she can, she supplies what she can for herself.

There isn't a hard or malicious bone in her body and he knows that it hurts her just as much when someone doesn't _understand_. Hubert's never been a prodigy in anything, not really, not like she is, but he can understand the sentiment. He's had his share of thrown stones for his age and rank and for who he was raised by.

So he gets it, just a little.

He knocks on the door when he arrives and she flings it open and Hubert's shocked by the way she greets him, flinging herself forward to throw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard and tight like she'll never let go and burying her face in the juncture of his throat and collarbone, covered by his uniform that he wears like a shield.

She _cries_ and he hates every single tear that she sheds.

So it's worth it to take the time off like he never has before, so fixated on proving himself and his worth for all that so much of the time, he feels so very small, if it means that he can keep her from feeling the same way. She's too bright, Hubert thinks, too bright and shining like sunshine poured into a human form with too little space left over for common sense, to be allowed to feel like that.

He won't allow it because he doesn't have all that much common sense either.

He's just very good at hiding it sometimes.

It's the third day since he's come here and now he's pinned to the floor.

"Could you not?" he sputters indignantly, pinned under Pascal's weight, and she cocks her head at him to send him a smile. It's infuriating.

"Hi," she says as if she does this all the time and Hubert feels the heat rising in his cheeks. This isn't like any of the touches he's used to, strictly shoulder claps and military handshakes and the occasional brotherly hair rumple from Asbel. This is like that first hug where he can feel all of her pressed up against him, so close that he can feel her heartbeat. He wonders if she can feel his.

Hubert certainly does, hears it pounding in his ears like a drum, louder than anything.

The only thing louder than his heart is her voice.

Which, admittedly, is never very quiet anyway.

"Hi," she repeats because apparently he's taken too long to respond.

How can he, when all he's capable of doing right now is feel and listen?

"H-h-hi," Hubert finally manages to stutter out. Pascal isn't getting up. On the contrary, he feels her shift on top of him as if making herself comfortable. At least _she's_ comfortable; he's about the farthest thing from it.

She's so _close_.

And getting closer still, as she leans forward until they're nose to nose and eye to eye and if Hubert's not crazy (and he very well might be; he did fall for her, after all), she looks a little bit nervous.

What could she possibly have to be nervous about?

"You know, Hu," she says.

Her hands come up to settle on either side of his head, palms down on the floor.

He could have chosen someone else, Hubert thinks. Someone clean, someone lady-like, someone who doesn't drive him absolutely insane at every turn, someone who doesn't make him flustered and light-headed in a position like this, someone who—well, it doesn't matter. Hubert didn't choose someone else, he chose her and he can't un-choose her now.

Not that he wants to.

It doesn't matter what he could have because he doesn't want it. What others might have couldn't make up for what they would lack, everything that Pascal seems to possess in spades.

"I was thinking a lot while you were gone."

"A-about?"

"Lots of things," she answers, and she's never been particularly cryptic before now. Oh, there've been plenty of times where Hubert hadn't a clue of what could be going through her head, but nothing that might apply to him, not ever. "I missed you, Hubert. I did."

"W-well, that's understandable, isn't it? We all spent such a long time together, it makes sense that you would miss everyone—"

And there are fingers landing on his lips and Hubert definitely doesn't think about what it might be like to kiss them. Pascal shakes her head, snow-white bangs falling into her eyes. She doesn't brush them away.

It's almost as if she'd rather hide.

"No. No, that's not...that's not what I mean. Yeah, I missed everyone, Sophie and Asbel and the captain...but I missed you different." she smiles then, sheepishly, and doesn't pull her hand away. Her fingers don't feel like what Hubert's experienced in most ladies. Not that he has all that much experience in such things but he HAS spent a bit of time kneeling down and kissing hands and they've always been soft and sweet-smelling and dainty.

Pascal has calluses and her hands smell like metal and what he's come to recognize as the scent of concentrated eleth, and he likes it better than the perfumes and lotions.

"I missed you too," Hubert tells her, mostly because he's already told her that he likes her and _that_ one went over her head entirely, so what was a little more hole-digging for himself? At this point, does it matter so much if she knows what he means by that? Does it matter if she knows that when he thinks about their adventure, the first thing he thinks about is her?

Amber eyes glitter like she's just solved a particularly difficult puzzle.

"Can I...can I try something?" Pascal asks after a good moment of silence.

Well, it really can't get much weirder than this, so why not?

"If you must."

Finally, Pascal removes her fingers from Hubert's lips and leans down so that the tip of her nose brushes his.

And then, so quickly that Hubert's not sure that it actually happens, she replaces her fingers with her lips.

It's a light touch with little pressure, warm and odd and _good_ and Hubert definitely shivers a little this time, going stiff with shock because there's _no way_ that that actually just happened. At his sides, his hands clench on reflex and when Pascal pulls away, her cheeks are flushed an appealing pink.

All Hubert can do right now is stare at her, wide-eyed and thrown for the mother of all loops.

She's smiling still, smiling like she's won and Hubert knows that he needs to do something, anything before she pulls away. She can't possibly mean it like he wants her to. She can't.

That doesn't mean he doesn't still want her to.

"What was that?" he finally manages.

"I wanted to," Pascal tells him.

"You...wanted to?"

"I told you, Hu, I missed you different. It took a while and I was kind of scared at first...but I finally realized what it meant. And then I couldn't stop thinking about it." her smile shifts to something he's never seen except when she thinks that no one's watching. It's the one he sees outside Fourier's workshop after she finds out how her sister really feels, the one he sees when she turns away from Kurt's body in Fendel. "I like you, a lot. More than I like anyone else, other than, like, Fourier, and that's _totally_ different…I know that you probably don't feel the same way about me, but-"

Unbelievable.

Unbelievable.

_Unbelievable_.

Hubert cuts her off by finally regaining feeling in his hands, enough to reach up to grip her around the elbows. Pascal starts but doesn't pull away. Her arms are bare and her skin is warm on his palms.

There are so many things he wants to say, so many things he wants to do, so many ways that he wants to tell her how the very prospect makes his heart sing. Instead, the first thing that comes out of his mouth is,

"You _idiot_," he sputters and knows full well that this looks ridiculous to the extreme. What would anyone say if they ever saw him like this? Lieutenant Hubert Oswell, pinned to the ground on his back by a bouncing slip of an Amarcian? He'd never hear the end of it. "Y-you don't _know_? I _told_ you!" If he could have done so without letting go of her, Hubert would have slapped a hand to his forehead and possibly considered drowning his sorrows in something particularly strong.

And then there's really nothing he can do but slip a hand around the nape of her neck and tug her down so that he can return the kiss she gave him. Hubert doesn't know what he's doing; he hasn't exactly kissed anyone like this, hasn't kissed anyone at all if kisses on the hands or those pressed to his mother's cheek don't count, and he doesn't know if it's any good at all for her even though he distinctly likes the warmth of her and she leans into him. She beams into it, just like sunshine, and it's no effort on his part to support her weight.

"I guess that means that you like me too?" she asks when she can and Hubert doesn't know whether to smack the back of his head against the floor or just kiss her again. In the end he doesn't have to because he makes himself nod and the smile that spreads across Pascal's face is different once again, wide and huge and almost unbearably sweet. She leans down again but instead of a kiss, she wraps her arms around his neck and curls up against him in what could be considered a hug but in truth is more like she's trying to get him as close as she can without actually muscling him underneath her clothing.

Oh god, her clothing.

Pascal's taken to the school uniform they picked up for her more than anyone ever expected, at least... parts of it, anyway. That skirt is SHORT, and it's even worse than Cheria's because at least with her, he didn't have a vested interest in the person wearing said short skirt.

He most definitely has a vested interest in Pascal and the skirt is doing absolutely nothing to quell that interest.

"I'm gonna kiss you again, okay, Hu?" she whispers against his lips.

"Kind of silly to give a warning when we're already like this?" he replies, just as quietly, because what else can he do? He's already throwing propriety to the wind as it is, what's a little more? He wasn't raised to engage in any sort of carnal relations on the workshop floor of crazy Amarcians. Such things were only meant for a wedding night, his adopted father said, behind closed (and preferably locked) doors and weren't to be spoken of outside of those circumstances.

Except, well, Pascal's never been one to stand on tradition _or_ propriety and considering that she's the one that Hubert fell for, maybe he's not either. At least, not quite as much as he'd like to be, anyway.

Pascal's had enough talking apparently, and the next thing Hubert knows (how much of this has SHE done to be able to do this to him so easily? It's not fair in the littlest bit), she's got her hands in his hair, rumpling every blue strand she touches and brushing it off of his forehead. Hubert might be tempted to return the favor if not for the fact that his hands have settled at her waist, just above her hips, and he finds that he likes the slight dips and curves of them too much to let go right this second.

It's entirely inappropriate.

Maybe Hubert's caught her perpetual case of inappropriate.

He hisses a little under his breath and this time he opens up when he feels the pressure she applies to his lips.

Hubert's read a lot of stories, too many, truth be told. They've all said different things about what it's supposed to be like, ranging from fireworks to various (and altogether strange but rather poetic) tastes but honestly, Hubert can't find any words that work except for good.

Except, possibly, amazing. Phenomenal? Never-ever-ever-never-not-doing-this-again, maybe? Or even, as Asbel might say, awesome. Hubert doesn't know and he doesn't really care, which is weird because Hubert always cares. Maybe Pascal has something to do with that, too.

It should be kind of gross, in theory. Reading the stories always made him feel a little bit violated and dirty because how in the world could someone licking into your mouth ever, ever be even remotely appealing?

Except that Pascal does it now and he never wants her to stop.

It doesn't taste like anything special, just warm and kind of wet and, oh spirits, this should be so gross.

But it's really, really not, and maybe it's Pascal making him crazy like she always does but Hubert finds himself matching her smile with his own, which is weird in itself.

He's crazy.

That's all there is to it at this point. It has to be.

Hubert Oswell is crazy, but he's kind of okay with that as long as he can be crazy with her.

Warm hands run warm patterns along Hubert's jaw line and the other curls around the base of his neck, deft and nimble fingers working their way underneath the stiff, formal fabric at his collar. He finds that he likes the feeling of her hips on his palms even though the floor leaves much to be desired and it works out somehow because even though he shouldn't, he finds himself breathing hard when he runs out of air, pulling away to stare up at her like he's never seen anything like her in his life.

She looks…well.

Hubert's seen Pascal dirty and mussed and scruffy and covered in grease; he's seen her dive headlong into situations he'd balk at and come out smeared with blood: a monster's, her own…or Hubert's, even, after holding an injury shut long enough for Cheria to get her healing artes off. He's never seen her like this; her cheeks are flushed and she's panting about as much as he is and her pupils are blown wide and dark.

He likes that too.

"Have you ever…yeah?" she breathes, nuzzling her nose against his cheek, "Kissing, I mean."

He can't lie.

"No. You're—you're the first."

She smiles like she's relieved, and what the hell does she have to be relieved about, anyway? Hubert's the one who's been suffering from a case of what he assumed was unrequited affection for so long when all he really needed to do was _wait_. And maybe, if he was forced to admit it, it would have come faster had he _stayed_.

And then, because he's an idiot, Hubert has to ask.

"What about you?"

He won't be surprised if he's not the first person she's kissed, he tells himself, though it does send a twinge up his spine and an irrational desire to hunt that person down. He won't be surprised, he tells himself, because she has more time on him, more opportunity, more…just more. Being someone's first isn't as important as being their last.

Nevertheless, Pascal shakes her head and her smile twists sheepishly.

"Not unless you count the dog I used to take care of."

Hubert doesn't.

He's not sure whether he cranes his neck upwards or whether she ducks back down again but the next thing he knows, her lips are brushing his in a not-quite kiss, and he can make out the words if he tries hard enough.

"Is it good?" she says and he's the only person she's ever said this to, the only person in the world who knows that she kisses like she lives, bright and enthusiastic and with a distinct feeling of winging it. "Do you like it? I like it, Hu."

Oh, does he like it.

It doesn't even matter that he seriously thinks that there might actually be a book digging into his spine because he wouldn't trade this for anything, not for all the promotions or fancy weapons in the world. Maybe not even for a mint collection of the Sunscreen Rangers figure set, complete with character booklets and first edition costume designs, and—

Oh.

Pascal tugs a little at his jacket.

"Aren't you _hot_?" she asks, not for the first time but never quite like this, "Yeesh. Come on, at least lose the ruffles, you'll roast."

"_No_," Hubert protests, feeling incredibly silly from his position on the floor, "It's inappropriate." He can think of a lot of words that can apply aside from inappropriate and that's sort of a problem because every single one of those words _is_ inappropriate. Pascal's not one of the noble ladies that flutters around and averts her eyes at the sight of a shoulder but that doesn't mean that he can treat her like…well, like something that he doesn't like.

And he's worried, a part of him, at the very thought. The coat's nice and it's sharp and it's heavy and taking it off feels like he's taking off his armor, and a part of him just doesn't want Pascal to see what's underneath.

"Hu," she says, "You'll get hot. And your coat will get dirty."

Pascal doesn't give a whit about whether his clothing gets dirty or not but it's nice of her to pretend that she does. Not to mention that she's got a funny look like she knows his coat's not just a coat, that it's more than fabric and stitching and starched linen. That it's important.

Her hands still in his collar and she doesn't make a move to push him.

She waits (impatiently, but she does wait) for his answer.

Hubert lets out his breath and pulls his hands away.

"Scoot back," he asks and Pascal scrambles backwards, enough that he can sit up. On a whim, he shoots a glance behind him. Yep, a stick. It'll leave a nice bruise right along with the nice memories. "I'd rather it didn't get dirty, I suppose." It's easy to grumble instead of admitting that he might be a little more anxious over this than he wants to be, but he thinks he gives himself away somehow because when he lifts a hand to start undoing the buttons, work-roughened fingers close around his to stop him.

Pascal is methodical, a scientist to her bones, and Hubert's buttons are no problem for her. Fabric slides off his shoulders and down his arms and she only lets go of his hand when she has to deal with the cuffs, and she's uncharacteristically gentle when she hangs the jacket over the back of a chair, a river of blues and purples. Hubert feels small without it, feels bare and exposed in teal breeches and under armor and boots, but stops thinking about it when she slides back into his lap, shrugging off her blazer without a care.

Hubert hesitates, doesn't know if he can handle this even though he wants to _so badly_. He's wanted a lot of things in his life, many that he knew from the get-go were impossible, but he's never wanted quite so much as he does now, wants to touch and kiss and maybe…maybe. But it's hard and Hubert desperately wants to stop thinking, or maybe he wants to start, and there's a voice in his head that tells him that he's despicable for wanting such things.

Pascal is immune to such qualms, one arm draping around his neck while the other runs up and down the bare skin of Hubert's arm.

"Pascal…"

She stops.

"Yes? What is it?" she asks.

Hubert has to know.

"What are we doing, here?" and he prepares for something he can't predict but that he knows is going to go badly because the pessimist in him won't let him look on the bright side, but it's _Pascal_ so of course she zigs when he thinks she's going to zag.

"Whatever you want," she replies with little hesitation, then amends it with, "Whatever _we_ want."

"But—"

She silences him with a kiss and continues as if he hadn't said a word.

"Listen, it's not hard," From anyone else, he would have taken that as an insult, except that he _knows_ that she doesn't men it like one, "I like you, you like me. If it's okay with you, I'd like to keep going. This is fun and it makes me happy and makes me feel good. I hope it makes you feel the same way. But if you don't like it or don't want to, say something. And we stop, no big dealio. Capice?"

Hubert's so absolutely thrown that he can't say a thing.

"Hu, come on. Say it's okay or not okay. I won't be mad if you don't want to, yeah?"

She makes a quiet noise of surprise when he moves, tugging her closer in a proper hug. There's less fabric under his hands and it's full contact and Hubert can feel her curl into him smooth and warm and absolutely feminine against the thinner fabric of his under armor. Hubert kisses her lips, her cheeks, her temples, anywhere that's convenient because he doesn't know how, but something's loosened up in him, a knot that he'd never quite noticed.

"It's okay," he mutters and there's something rough in his voice, "It's okay, it's more than okay." And then because he can't help it, "Did you actually _bathe_ today?"

Pascal glares at him.

"You hush up," she grumbles and pinches his cheek between her fingers, squeezing just until he winces, "Don't you make fun of me. You know I don't really mind it. I just don't _think_ about it."

Isn't that the truth?, Hubert thinks, because he's never met anyone so prone to getting caught up n work before. From anyone else it might sound like an excuse, but her? For someone so spacey, she has the focus of something terrifying when she gets serious and it's not unknown for her to go days without eating or sleeping or bathing simply because she doesn't think about it. And then, next thing Hubert knows, he's getting a message from Fourier or the captain about how she's let herself pass out again, the gigantic _idiot_, and he's stuck worrying like an even more gigantic idiot.

Because that is what he is.

At least he knows it, as opposed to his big, dumb, lovable excuse for an older brother.

"Hey! Are you listening to me?" Pascal demands and Hubert's jolted from his thoughts when she shifts against him in a way that he'd be crazy to ignore, "You gonna sit there like a doofus or are you gonna let me rock your world?"

Hubert gapes.

"What the—what does that even mean? Speak like a normal person!"

"It means, Hubert Oswell," she says with a glitter in her eyes that makes Hubert wonder what exactly it might be like to have all of that legendary focus fixed on him, "Put up or shut up." She swallows anything he might have said in reply and it is absolutely insane because Hubert just doesn't do this, doesn't grin like a maniac into the lips of the only girl in the world who would so much as dare to _sit on him_, doesn't seriously consider the idea of finding out whether the skin of her thighs is as warm as the rest of her, doesn't wonder what it'd be like to brush his thumbs along her collarbones. Hubert does, though, wonder that is, and he hisses a little bit in appreciation when instead of going in for another kiss like he's expecting, Pascal goes for his earlobe and gives it a playful nip. "What's it gonna be?"

Oh, that just tears it.

"You horrible, no-good, _gorgeous_ girl," Hubert tells her and is utterly shocked by her reaction. Pascal freezes up like a statue, eyes wide and mouth slack. And then she noticeably blushes.

"You mean it? No one's ever called me pretty before," there's no trace of teasing or the sense of fishing for compliments in her voice, just an honest surprise and pleasure and maybe, just maybe, the slightest hint of wariness that he might be kidding.

That wouldn't do, not at all.

"I absolutely mean it," Hubert declares with all the pomp he can muster considering how flustered he is right now, because he thinks she needs to hear it and what's a little more embarrassment? "You're very," kiss, "Very," kiss, kiss, "Pretty." She beams at him and he can't help but add because it's like an open door, "Even if you forget to bathe." Pascal sputters indignantly and it's her turn to get her words kissed away, and that is a ridiculously satisfying thing to do to someone, Hubert realizes with a start. Perhaps it's a character flaw to be prone to payback, but how could he resist when payback's just so easy?

And _fun_.

"That's rude."

"You like it," Hubert snarks right back and most certainly doesn't think about how silly this looks, one half-mad Amarcian engineer in his lap with her blazer thrown carelessly behind her (he really can't sit like this forever; this is going to be a serious problem very soon) and one Strahtan lieutenant who's missing half his uniform with his hair mussed and probably sticking up in weird places and who will soon be dueling the pain of a backache against the need to possibly never let go of her again.

Also, that skirt. _That blasted skirt_.

He's not sure whether he wants to tug the hem down further or flip it up and it's best to stop thinking about it before he actually _does_ something about it.

Except that that skirt (he _loves_ that skirt) and the way she's sitting is already doing something to _him_ and Hubert squirms a little bit, fighting the urge to rock against her and get some friction.

No. No. Absolutely not.

Hubert is a grown man and he is in control of his hormones.

He is not a twelve year old boy who's just discovered the joy of touching himself. Really.

"Um…Pascal?" He asks tentatively, entirely unsure as to how to go about saying _Hi there, it's your fault that I'm totally hard right now. I don't suppose you'd want to do something about it with me?_

Ahahaha.

No.

Thank goodness she's intelligent and spares him from actually having to vocalize the thought, even though it's _really_ not much better than what she does instead, which is shoot him a wicked grin and slide very deliberately against him, grinding down against his erection until he hisses and clenches his hands on her shoulders.

"What do you want?" Pascal whispers in his ear and leans close until all Hubert sees is the snow white and red of her hair, "Tell me, Hu."

She likes this, there's no two ways about it. Even if he couldn't see her face, Hubert knows she does because she doesn't bother to hide the smile in her voice. She gets far too much amusement out of his predicament. It's not fair _at all_.

Well, fine then.

Hubert fights down the heat in his cheeks and slides a hand down to the small of her back and tugs her close until they're plastered chest to chest and that backache of his is going to be _so worth it_ for the startled 'meep' sound that slips out of her throat and the way her hands clench in the fabric at his back. For all of her teasing and bluster, it's nice to see that she's just as affected, flattering and exhilarating and encouraging because it's because of _him_.

Hubert Oswell managed to put a look of flustered lust on Pascal's face, and oh, is that backache worth it.

"First of all," he tells her, "I'd really like to get off the floor if it's all the same to you." He does a good job of keeping his voice steady, he thinks, especially when he's all too aware of her breasts pressed up against his chest.

Captain Malik would be proud.

Oh, spirits, there is definitely something wrong with him.

"You wanna go to my room, then?"

How is she not embarrassed?, Hubert wonders when Pascal just comes out and asks him like there's nothing to it as she shifts off of his lap to let him up. Maybe there isn't, to her.

Theoretically, as a gentleman, he ought to politely decline while strongly implying that he'd like to do this again because gentlemen weren't to behave like hormone-driven teenagers. Hubert's apparently not as much of a gentleman as he thought himself to be because declining is the last thing he does. He doesn't even come close to declining, instead scrambling to his feet the moment he can.

"…..pffffft," Pascal's giggling at him, covering her mouth with a hand from where she still sits on the floor.

"What?!" Hubert demands, and she doesn't answer, just laughs harder until the red in her cheeks is from mirth instead of arousal. And Hubert looks down.

And promptly wishes he hadn't because in his haste, he forgot about the state of his lower half and has just realized that he's currently standing over Pascal looking as if he stuffed a tree branch down his pants. And she's _laughing_ at his misfortune. Something cold that Hubert recognizes intimately as mortification settles in his stomach and he buries his face in a hand. It's hard enough to not sink back down to the floor and maybe never look her in the eyes for the rest of his life.

But then there's a hand reaching out and fingers lacing firmly with his, and Hubert lifts his head. Pascal doesn't laugh anymore even though her eyes are bright with amusement and she gives his hand a firm squeeze.

"It's okay," she says, "It's okay. No big." She grins. "It's a compliment."

"Please never speak again," Hubert moans as he drops his face back down but he feels better somehow. The cold fades as he realizes that she's not judging. She's not laughing at _him_, she's laughing because it's funny. There was a point once where he wouldn't have seen the difference, but he does now, and it's with that thought that he squeezes her fingers around his and tugs her to her feet.

He knows where her bedroom is and he's not sure who pushes who in the direction of the bed but they land on it together, Pascal laughing again like a mad thing and Hubert on his way because this is ridiculous and he _loves _it. Pascal flops on her back and tugs him along until he's looming over her, legs spread to either side of her hips. She looks distinctly less concerned than he did when put in the same position and that's just not fair at all.

"Hello," is all he can really think to say when she's _right there_ and all he has to do is move an inch to touch her properly.

"Howdy," she chirps back, "You come here often?" He stares at her, scandalized, and the forced seriousness on her face fades away into giggles again. Hubert shifts and there's no rustle of fabric against his thigh. With no small bit of trepidation, he looks away from her smile and directs his gaze downwards…

A flash of red and yellow stripes and the image of Pascal's panties is then forever seared into his brain, never to be removed.

"…gurk."

The noise that comes out of his mouth is horrifying and should be forgotten until the end of time.

Her smile widens into something wicked that should frustrate him but instead makes his heart pound harder in his head and he gapes at her. Pascal makes no move to flip her skirt down and with clumsy, shaking fingers, Hubert grips the hem and begins to tug it back to rights, only to freeze when she takes his hand and drops it to her bare thigh. The skin there is just as warm and smooth as it looks.

"You can go ahead and touch," she says without a lick of shame, "I only bite when it's fun."

That just warrants Hubert making a mental reminder to test that theory. Later, possibly, and when he's not quite so focused on getting petty revenge. Or when, petty revenge aside, he's not too busy marveling at how he's gotten so lucky. He has to touch, now, has to touch and taste and _listen_ because he can, and Hubert leans down to bypass Pascal's lips to lave at her neck, gently at first, then harder when she shudders a little under the attention, and then he goes about sucking a bruise into her throat, the skin of her leg burning into his palm like a brand he never wants to lose.

"Hu!" Pascal doesn't so much say his name as she breathes it, her voice tapering off into a sort of pleased surprise that Hubert wants to hear more of. "Hu, that's—you're _fantastic_, Hu! You are, you really are…"

Her hands tangle in the hem of his under armor and Hubert doesn't protest when they maneuver underneath it and she pushes it upwards, revealing the pale skin of his stomach and when he scrapes his teeth against the mark he's just made, Pascal squirms and makes as if to pull him closer, running patterns up and down his bared back with her hands.

He can please her, he realizes with a start. Please her, surprise her, and make her want _more _of him.

Somehow, those thoughts are almost more potent than his own pleasure, impossible as it may seem for a boy with the girl he's been pining over for months underneath him and up for about anything.

Hubert pulls back and scrutinizes the mark he's made; he's heard that they fade quickly sometimes, and he finds that that's something he doesn't really want. He'd like to see it for a bit, even if only for a few days until she deigns to heal it, because he made it and Pascal let him. It's there, bright and red and able to be hidden by her hair if she holds her head in a certain way. She could.

Instead, Pascal stares right back at him and doesn't try to hide it. She lets go of him long enough to reach up and press a finger to the bruise, and she grins.

"Well, that's a first for me," she comments as if talking about the weather instead of a hickey, "I didn't think it felt so good. You want one too, Hubert?" She doesn't offer like it's a duty; her eyes are bright in the way that means she's having a good time, and Hubert has no doubts that she makes the offer out of equal fairness, the pleasure for him, and if Pascal's anything like Hubert, pleasure for her too.

That's the way it should be, he thinks.

Give and receive in equal measure, pleasure to be had in both.

That is nothing like anything his adopted father told him over the years, not at all. Maybe they're just a couple of hedonists for all this fun, he thinks and doesn't realize until it's too late that he said the words aloud and that Pascal's response to this is to agree with him and wiggle her hips, coming maddeningly close to his erection which shows no signs of going away any time soon. He can't bring himself to ask it of her, though. It's too much, more than the intimacy they've had so far and the idea that she might feel obligated…the idea of obligation makes him feel a little bit sick inside.

"Can I take this off?" she asks him suddenly and makes her intentions clear by pushing the teal fabric up further until it hits his underarms and she can't anymore. Hubert almost lets himself say no; the coat was difficult to give up and he'd been distracted when she'd started the process of pushing his shirt away, too distracted by hands on bare skin and the salt he can still taste on his tongue and the way she lets him between her knees with no regard for silly things like modesty. It's not that he doesn't want to, he realizes, it's not at all. It's just that he doesn't want to risk her disappointment. "I want to touch you, too."

Hubert drags in a breath and ducks his head into the wrecked mess that's her hair until he can't see anything but red and white.

If there's anyone in the world he thinks he can be vulnerable in front of, it's her.

"Well, all right," he says and Pascal doesn't waste time getting to it, pulling the garment up over his head and throwing it to the other end of the room and then there's just Hubert, naked to the waist and she's free to do as she likes with him, to him, for him. What she likes right now happens to be running deft fingertips from his hips upwards. She's thorough just as she is in everything else, paying close attention to the dip of his navel to the length of each of his ribs, pressing enough that Hubert squirms and she lets out a startled giggle like she wasn't expecting his reaction. Hubert didn't expect it either. From his ribs she trails her hands up, pausing to brush the pads of her thumbs over his nipples and trace the edges of his clavicle before lacing together at the nape of his neck.

"I gotta memorize you…" she mutters under her breath, so quietly that Hubert almost doesn't hear despite the lack of distance.

He almost asks her, shamelessly sarcastic, where exactly she thinks he's going, except that he's distracted by her hands slipping around his shoulders to bring him down and her lips brush his collarbone, and she nips the skin there to send out a jolt of something that goes straight to his groin.

"Pascal, you—"

"I thought a lot while you were gone," she speaks quietly but he can hear every sound as if she's writing them into his skin with a branding iron, her breath hot and strong and her words hotter, "About this. About what it'd be like to kiss you. To touch you. What it'd be like to have you leaning over me like this. What it'd be like for you to _want_ me. What it would feel like for you to want me so bad that you'd throw everything away and let me give you what I want. What would you do if I asked you for more? I know you want, but can you take?"

"Why are you saying this?" Hubert chokes out and feels his cheeks burn. This isn't something people talk about, it's not—it's not _polite_. He's embarrassed and there's that feeling again, like he's doing something dirty that he's not supposed to do, even though he has few other obligations and no reason to feel the shot of self-recrimination that shoots down his spine like a blow. Pascal doesn't answer immediately, choosing instead to sweep her fingertips in soothing circles along his back. Deliberately, she closes her knees until she's gripping Hubert about the hips.

"Because I think you feel like this is wrong," she tells him bluntly, "And I want you to know that it's not. You want and there's nothing wrong with that. There's nothing wrong with _you_. I want, too. There is absolutely nothing wrong with doing something that feels good with someone that you love. At least, that's how I feel about it." And maybe Pascal doesn't think about what she's just said because she's never used that word before and neither has he, but somehow…he doesn't think the phrasing is an accident.

Love.

What a stupid, innocuous word.

What a stupid, innocuous word that sends him flying face over honeypot and makes the drumbeats in his head ever louder until the only thing that drowns them out is her voice.

She doesn't say she loves him. Not like he's always expected it to happen, not with the glitz and practiced courtesies and the whispers of the aristocracy behind closed doors. There's no diamond ring to go along with it or gloved hands to kiss, no approving look on the face of his adopted father, no parties for weeks and delicate flutes of champagne that make him lightheaded and heavy-hearted.

There's just him, a shirtless mess of a lieutenant who rejected profitable matches in favor of a girl of no political standing who can invent anything as long as she stays focused, who forgets to bathe and has to be bullied into trying new food and relishes in being a bad influence and has the strangest friendship with Captain Malik that Hubert's ever seen. In terms of being politically advantageous, she's a veritable landmine of problems.

In terms of love, friendship, and camaraderie, there's no one better.

That and she apparently possesses the ability to set his blood on fire.

"I want to feel that way," Hubert admits after a while, "I want to." And a part of him hates himself for it a little bit.

"Let me help. If you want to, I'm right here. But I don't want anything you don't want too. It's not—that's not _right_," Pascal sounds scandalized at the very idea of any imaginary implied coercion on her part and Hubert's shocked by the sudden rush of relief that goes down to his bones. It's…it's okay. It's Pascal, so it's okay.

She's a lot of things. Overenthusiastic, headstrong, and pushy in her own right…but not where it counts.

Not where it _hurts_.

"Come here, Hu."

"I think I'm about as close as I can get, really," Hubert replies, except that he's not because Pascal digs her thumb into the small of his back and he finds that actually yes, he _can_ get closer. It's just more full-body and exactly the kind of contact that he was hoping to avoid because now there's no way she can't notice how ungodly hard he is and he knew that she knew but not that she _knew_ and he had no idea that it was this mortifying.

She still won't fix her damned skirt and he could kill her for what the thing does to him.

"Next time," Pascal tells him jovially, and he really wishes that he knew whether she was teasing or serious, "You should wear the jacket. You know, the one that matches me."

"Please never speak again," Hubert repeats even though his heart is already lightening. Maybe _because_ it is.

She assumes that there's going to be a next time. She dares to assume what he can't and he could kiss her for it so he does, soundly and smiling into her lips and feeling her match it. There's permission in it; he's allowed to do this. He can kiss her when he wants to, for whatever reason, even when there's no reason at all. He hopes she knows that it goes in reverse, that anything she gives him she's welcome to take.

He hopes.

Hubert pulls away from her just long enough to say, because he _has_ to,

"So, just to be sure—"

He doesn't get the chance to finish because Pascal grinds her hips up into him and takes his breath away.

"Hu?" she says, deceptively sweetly, because her eyes are dark and blown and anything but sweet, "I'm begging you, here. Please, for like, I don't know how long, _please_ stop thinking so hard. Unless you want me to tell you _exactly_ how frustrated you're making me."

And that's something that Hubert never thought that he could like. He doesn't expect the pleased shiver that rocks through him not just at the deliberate friction she's putting on his cock but the idea that she sounds so frustrated because she wants to fall apart. And then he gets annoyed because that means that he's not helping the process.

"Maybe I do," he whispers in her ear and he's pleased when she looks entirely thrown, the comment unexpected, before grinning.

Maybe he's not the only one snuck up on by his own apparent verbal kink.

"Huh," she muses, "Who woulda thought? Hubert Oswell," her voice drops down to something not like or unlike a purr, necessarily, but something distinctly Pascal, teasing and excited and a little hoarse, like her words are getting caught on something, "Wants to hear me _talk_, of all things. What shall I say?" She pauses to give him a slightly bruising kiss, "Shall I tell you about a day two weeks ago, when I touched myself and thought of you? When I touched myself and pretended that it was you instead, that it was your hands and fingers and lips instead? This is better, so much better than that, because you're _real_."

Hubert flashes back to a few of his own deeply hidden fantasies, in his own dark bedroom and completely silent so as to not grab anyone's attention, fantasies full of heat and starlight and ombre hair. Those fantasies always started with pleasure and longing and love and ended with a wreck on his hands and a sense of deep shame. Whether it was a shame that stemmed from a general feeling that he was despicable or from the idea that he was damaging his friend, albeit unknowingly, he never knew.

Now, at Pascal's own admission, he's unsure if it matters.

"You thought about me when you did…that?"

He means to say something else but that comes out instead and he's briefly mortified before remembering that it's Pascal, not Cheria who would be horrified at the entire discussion or someone like Sophie (and that's a thought he'd like to avoid for the rest of his life, thank you) who wouldn't understand _his_ horror in the slightest. It's Pascal who grins sheepishly but doesn't lie and he wonders if she's ever been ashamed like he has.

"Yeah," she says, "Yeah, I did. You wanna know about it?"

Oh, does he want to know about it.

Not only does he want to know about it, but he wants to know for himself, find out whether he lives up to whatever she's pictured in her head, whether it's anything at all like the things he's pictured in _his_ head, to find out whether her hands might be better than his own.

"It usually starts with a kiss," Pascal tells him, grinning a cat's grin when he leans down and obliges, giving her lower lip a quick nip (she likes that, he remembers, and files it away for next time) and pulling away just enough so that she can be heard, "Maybe a few more, set the mood right, ya know?"

And who's Hubert to deny her when it feels like the temperature's gone up by one or thirty degrees? Her hands continue to run through the hair at the nape of his neck as he does so, those talented fingers of hers both burning brands into him with every touch and soothing him at the same time.

"What then?" he whispers hoarsely against her smile.

Hubert wants and Hubert needs and Hubert doesn't know where to go. He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit that he doesn't know where to go from here. He wants direction, he wants guidance, he wants to know what's okay because he doesn't have a clue. Luckily, Pascal seems more than willing to take the reins out of his hands and into her own.

"Then," she says, taking a hand in one of hers and bringing it to her side, sliding Hubert's fingers up underneath her white button-up until he hits bare skin, "You touch me here," she slides upwards past her ribs, "Here," His fingertips touch the fabric of her breast band and hers deftly begin undoing the buttons of her top. Hubert has to hand it to her, he isn't entirely sure that he'd be able to manage undoing his own one-handed in his current state, so it's a good thing that he doesn't have to.

"You match," he says when he gets an eyeful of her bra and realizes too late how _stupid_ that sounds, except that he'd never really thought about it before and now he can, and Pascal wriggles some of the fabric out of the way. It must be a skill that only girls possess, because he _knows_ that he wouldn't be half as distracting as she is while she does it.

"I do," Pascal says agreeably, and then has to ruin it with, "Does it turn you on?" with a waggle of her eyebrows. She lets go of his hands and wriggles out of her shirt entirely, pulling it out from under her and draping it around Hubert's shoulders like a shawl. He gapes at her.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Hehehehe, you're wearing my clothes~"

"Is this really the time for joking?" he sputters just as Pascal's grin only widens.

"Of course it is!" she tells him, "This is actually the best time for joking!"

Hubert doesn't agree. Everything he's read, everything he's heard…well. What he's heard from people like his father wouldn't fill a picture book (except that he would one day get his wife pregnant and then he would never see anyone naked ever again) and everything he read was so off-color that he caught a split-second eyeful of his cheeks going red in the mirror before the book was being flung across the room. Still, all of these things had a theme: no one was laughing.

"Pascal…"

"Uh-uh," the girl interrupts him and before he can say anything else takes his hand to push it up underneath the fabric of her bra. To her credit, Hubert goes completely silent. "This is how it's going to go: you're going to shut the hell up right now, stop thinking _so hard_, and touch my boobs."

Hubert's breath stutters and he's so very aware of warm skin under his hand, warm skin that he's most definitely never touched before on anyone (oh god, is this what people reference when they talk about heavy petting? Oh, god). Pascal's tone is annoyed but her eyes are still gentle and soft.

"Hu, it's _okay_. Just have fun. It's all right, the world isn't going to explode. You want it, I want it, and you know what? We deserve to get what we want."

She reaches out with her other hand and pats him on the cheek.

Hubert's never thought about it like that, not really. He's always just kind of assumed that when the time came, it'd be something planned and methodical and not…well. Getting hot and heavy with _Pascal_ of all people in the bedroom of her thrice damned workshop. He's never thought about it as something he deserved or didn't deserve, or even something he wanted or didn't want. It was just _there_.

Just there, until he realized for the first time what it was like to really want somebody.

"…Okay!" he says suddenly, like this is some sort of battle instead of a sexual undertaking that will likely get him disowned and the shift in his voice puts a funny little spark in Pascal's face. "To hell with everything!"

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Pascal starts to say before Hubert cuts her off with an almost bruising kiss, throwing himself into it like he's throwing himself off a cliff. He kind of is, actually, and it takes more willpower than he's ever used to throw away the parts of himself that are still screaming that he's a dirty, horrible human being. With a tug, he tugs up the red and yellow fabric of her bra to touch her properly and with less awkwardness than he expected.

And then she giggles.

"Pascal!"

"I'm sorry! It's just _fun_! And it tickles," she squirms underneath him and suddenly drags in a hissing breath when Hubert gives her nipple an experimental tweak. "Oi! Rude."

"You like it," Hubert observes abstractly, watching Pascal's cheeks color a little as she glares at him. He repeats the gesture and she threatens to bat his hand away, albeit reluctantly. Reluctantly in that every time he does it, she tenses up and rucks her hips against his like she can't help it and Hubert can't help how much _he _likes it. She's keeps her control by being so out of it and Hubert wants to make her fall apart, and it's these little tells that tell him that maybe, maybe, she's not quite as in control as she'd like to believe.

And oh, he likes that too.

"What do you want?" he asks her, speaking so quietly into her ear that a breeze might have blown his words away, all the while running a hand up her side from her hips to her ribs to the swell of her breast, "Tell me, and I'll try to make it happen." He means it too. He'll do his best to give this girl anything she asks because she's the only person who can give him control and take it all away at the same time, and it's so damned _freeing_ that he doesn't know how he hasn't gone flying off into the sky yet.

He wonders what he'd do if she asks him to…well.

If she asks him to fuck her.

The word itself is crude but not unappealing and Hubert hopes that she doesn't simply because he wants to make it good for her, and he's pretty sure that two virgins (because there isn't a chance in hell that Pascal's not a virgin) flying by the seats of their pants (or lack of pants in Pascal's case), neither of whom had planned for this, is a recipe for disaster.

Apparently the words do something to her, because Pascal's hands slide from his shoulders to the bare skin at the small of his back, tugging his hips forward until he feels the lacey edges of her panties slide against his thighs.

"Do you want to know the rest?" Somehow Hubert's _actually_ done something to her because her pupils are blown wide again and her voice is low and throaty and she's not ashamed at all, "About what I think about when I think about you and you're not here?"

"_Yes_," Hubert breathes, and deft fingers slip around the front of his hips to undo the buttons of his breeches. He doesn't, can't, _won't_ stop her when Pascal grins and slides her hand inside his peacock blue, military issue boxer briefs to wrap her fingers around him, skin on skin, and he hisses his appreciation into her neck. The friction is sweet and hot and _not enough_, and he doesn't notice until the girl underneath him shivers a little that he gives in and begs, "_Please._"

"Oh ho, don't worry, sweetie," Hubert doesn't need to look at her to see the smile on her face, he can hear it in her voice, "I'll get you there. Where's it feel best?" she asks, almost conversationally like she does this all the time, shifting a little bit underneath him and adjusting her grip around his cock, "Here? Or maybe?" She lets her hand drift around to circle him completely in the other direction. Oh, she's inexperienced but a quick learner, Hubert can't help but hate a little bit because he knows it'll take him so much longer to figure out what makes her tick, but he can't hate it too much when she makes him feel like he's going to explode. Pleasure like lightning bolts and the summer sun pool down into his groin and it's so, so different than when he does this to himself, "Come on, Hu. You've got to tell me, otherwise I won't know~"

"You are a damn, dirty liar," Hubert informs her shakily like he's not rutting into her hand right now and that brash, reckless grin goes so suddenly sweet that it's like the world got turned upside down.

"Maybe, but I promise, you can tell me. It's okay, tell me anything. Here?" a shift, "Or maybe here…?"

"There!" Hubert's words come with teeth that graze the mark he made earlier, making Pascal hiss with her own pleasure and throwing off her rhythm, "There, there, there…"

"Hey, I said I'd get you there. The trip's half the fun."

The trip is actually all of the fun, Hubert thinks, and seriously considers thinking of all the unsexy things he can fathom (ranging from Asbel in various states of impropriety to his etiquette instructor in a brocade dressing gown) to try and stave off the inevitable, which doesn't work too well because every time he gets an image in his head, he's reminded of Pascal, Pascal, Pascal, and it sends him spiraling right back again.

So in the end he gives up in favor of just feeling and brushing his lips to every bit of Pascal he can reach; her lips, her shoulders, her collarbones, the dip where her cleavage would normally be. She stays as steady as the seasons, her other hand bracing his hip to keep him close. Not like he wants for an excuse to stay close to her at this point.

"Oh, that's hot," she breathes, "Hu? Tell me when you're close, okay? I wanna see what you look like when you come."

Hubert's always been a quiet one and that doesn't change now, even when his skin's on fire and he wants to give this ridiculous, borderline horrifying girl the parts of him that matter and the parts that don't, and he barely has time to choke out a hoarse, "_Now_," before he he's riding out his orgasm, rough and hard and unashamed, into her hand. He drops his head instinctively but she pulls it back up to kiss him and swallows the sound he makes, a broken groan that makes him feel like the world is spinning.

Hubert goes boneless and doesn't move again until he realizes that he kind of totally just collapsed right on top of her, and he's kind of heavy, and _oh god_, she hasn't taken her hand out of his pants yet even though her other arm is wrapped tightly around him like she's holding all of his pieces together.

The tension's drained out of him to leave him feeling more content than he ever felt by himself but he has enough sense to roll over and take her by the wrist to pull her hand out of the wrecked mess that he used to call his underwear. Pascal flings her other hands off the side of the bed to drag up a towel and makes to wipe her hand off; Hubert takes it from her first and does it for her, wiping off her palm and fingers with dedication until all the evidence has left her skin.

"Awwww, you didn't have to do that," Pascal protests as she sits up against the headboard and Hubert kneels on the bed to look her in the eyes, uncaring of the fact that his pants are still unbuttoned and the slightest bit squelchy.

"What comes next?" he says, breathing still a bit uneven, and gestures to the rumpled remnants of Pascal's clothing. The girl shakes her head, red and white mingling in a way he'll never get used to.

"No, no, you don't have to—" she shakes her hands too, "Really—"

"What if I said I wanted to?" Hubert leans forward to lock blue eyes with amber, scooting forward until he can loom over her a little bit, "Pascal, I—I _want_ to. If it's okay with you. So let me." Pascal's mouth drops open and Hubert's rewarded with absolute speechlessness. He thinks it's a first and eventually, she closes her mouth and nods, still silent. "I…you know, I probably won't be much good at this," Hubert admits and clenches his hands a little bit to trim off some of the nerves and anticipation, "But I want to try."

He wants to memorize her, to find out what makes her laugh and come apart and what'll leave her shaking and in pieces. Hubert's not sure how to do that but he's always been determined and when Hubert Oswell fixes that determination on something?

Well, it gets done.

"Well, I'm not going to _stop_ you," Pascal informs him and scoots back a little bit to adjust her position and prop her knees up, shifting one of her pillows to keep the headboard from digging into her spine. The look on her face is one that Hubert's never seen before, a strange combination of surprise and delight and the tiniest bit of trepidation and he remembers, almost distantly, that this is a first for her too. If she's never kissed anybody but him, how could he possibly thing that she could have experience with something like this? She talks a good game and she's enthusiastic to a tee but he has to make himself remember that it's not just new for him.

"How should…?"

"Do whatever," Pascal says breathlessly, watching him like she'll never be able to look away again, "Seriously. I'll tell you what's good."

Hubert doesn't doubt that; she doesn't hold back anything else so why would he ever think that she'd make an effort to hold back her pleasure?

Well, that'll at least make this less intimidating.

Hubert pulls in a breath and feels something settle inside him like it belongs there. She's eager and interested and wants this because it's _him_ and that's a thought that makes him smile.

"Don't just tell me if it's good," he adds, "If I do something wrong or if you don't like it…tell me, okay?"

"O-okay."

Hubert reaches out to rest his hands on her knees, sliding them apart with a steadiness that surprises him. Pascal lets him, even spreading them farther to further accommodate whatever he wants. The skirt's in the way again, and fingers curl in plaid fabric to push it up further on her hips, revealing her red and yellow striped panties once again.

Now or never.

Hubert brushes fingertips against the warm skin at the base of her stomach and slides them down, over fabric to touch that warm place between her legs for the first time, startled and intrigued when above him, Pascal squeaks a little bit.

"What did you think I was going to do, stab you?" he can't help but ask her and a calloused hand runs through his hair to rest on the back of his head.

"I was surprised, is all. Go on."

"Your wish is my command,"

"Will that work all the time?" Pascal asks with a cock of her head, "Would you make me a banana pie if I asked?"

"Don't press your luck," Hubert jokes back with a quirk of his eyebrows and uses the opportunity in between Pascal's laughing at him to hook the fingers of his spare hand in the waistband of her underpants and begin to tug them down. He's got to hand it to her, the girl's got no modesty at all and in fact squirms a little bit to give him a hand pulling them off.

"You can keep them if you want," Pascal informs him to Hubert's abject horror, "Guys like souvenirs, yeah?"

Hubert drops her panties like they're suddenly on fire, which is actually more like he flings them off the side of the bed.

And then he realizes the ridiculousness of the situation. Hubert Oswell in a pair of wrecked pants and no shirt, kneeling down in front of Pascal, who happens to not be wearing any pants at all, with her bra twisted up and a flush rising high on her cheeks. And Hubert Oswell doesn't care about that at all.

And it's right after he realizes that he doesn't care that he realizes that he may or may not be extremely intimidated.

Is there some kind of…protocol, for this? Maybe a list of rules? Some stepping stones, perhaps?

The closest Hubert's ever come to this area of a girl's anatomy is in those same off-color books that he threw across the room. Some of them had even come with pictures and he remembers staring at them in a combination of mortification and arousal before disposing of them. So he's not entirely stupid but…

Okay, so maybe he's entirely stupid.

Still, the only way to start something is to just jump in somewhere and Hubert's always had a talent for improvising, and he gives a mental shrug before just jumping in. Pascal makes a wordless noise of appreciation when he reaches out and spreads her lips with his thumbs. See what's where first, he decides with more than a bit of trepidation, then poke around, literally, to see what she likes most. See what's good, not so good.

Shouldn't be too difficult, theoretically.

Then again, a lot of difficult things aren't too difficult in theory, like admitting your feelings to the girl you like or kissing or letting her take away your shields. But he's done all of those difficult things and he'll risk embarrassment if it means that he can give back the pleasure she gave him first.

Cautiously, he brushes the edge of her entrance with his fingertips and Pascal squirms against him; he's not sure whether it's from impatience or pleasure but he does it again, receiving an almost indignant _Hubert!_ for his trouble. Impatience it is, then. He flicks her in the thigh and scowls upwards but can't hold the expression for long because she just looks…god.

She looks exactly like she's won, and she might be impatient but her smile's wide and lazy and sweet and Hubert realizes once again just how much he loves this insufferable girl.

He doesn't mind her being so smug because he's won too.

"Um…" _Now_ she sounds a little bit hesitant and Hubert pauses to glance up at her again, "Is it…I mean, I hope it doesn't look weird or anything. I don't really—I mean…uh—"

"Not like I'd know," he shoots back at her and strokes her hipbone with his thumb. He doesn't like the way she sounds worried, not at all. Pascal shouldn't ever be worried. "Don't worry," color rises in his cheeks as he speaks but he thinks he needs to say it and he thinks she needs to hear it, "You're gorgeous, okay? I don't know what the hell I'm doing but that's not because of you. I just want to make this good for you."

The more he speaks the redder she goes and Hubert realizes suddenly the moisture that he can feel on his fingertips is because of him. He did this to her and the thought should maybe make him feel awkward but instead it makes him pleased.

And she seems to like it when he talks.

Well, that makes two of them.

"You _know_ you're gorgeous, right?"

He hasn't even said anything scandalous but she colors even further and goes so far as to cover her face with her hands to cover it.

"H-Hu!" Oh, god, she actually stutters, "Don't say stuff like that!"

"What, so you can talk about the all the dirty things you think about but I can't give you a compliment? Now, that's not fair…" He's only halfway teasing but splays his fingers, warm and wide, over the expanse of bare skin at her hip. Honestly, he could spend forever right here, taking her apart piece by piece and seeing how she works like she takes apart her machines and there will be plenty of time for that later, but right now, he wants to see how she looks when she hits her peak.

Hubert remembers how Pascal's fingers burned on his cheeks when he came and the way she drank in his face like she wanted to memorize it. So help him, he _will_ get the chance to reciprocate or die trying.

And then Hubert gets the idea to end all ideas and leans in closer, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

"Hubert…" Pascal starts, wide-eyed, and Hubert shakes his head to cut her off.

"Don't freak out, it's okay. If you don't like it, just—just tell me no," he says and ignores the frantic beating of his heart in his chest, "It's just—you said…you said you that when you touched yourself, you thought about my hands…and my lips?" Pascal's jaw drops.

"Hu, you don't have—"

"What part of _I want to_ do I need to keep repeating?" Hubert gripes under his breath but doesn't retreat, dropping a kiss to her inner thigh instead and feeling the same warm skin there that there is everywhere. And then he shifts closer to repeat the gesture, and then finally gathers up his courage to press his lips to that warm, wet place that he's been getting a feel for (quite literally in fact). Pascal makes a strangled squeak and Hubert knows that if he looks up, the expression on her face will be _priceless_. Instead, he focuses on what he's doing.

This is quite…different is the best word, he decides.

Different but not bad by any means. Not a bad feel, nor a bad smell…certainly not a bad taste, either. Not bad for Pascal either, if the way she's squirming or the slightly breathless _Hu! _that comes flying out of her mouth is any indicator. He grins a little bit. Okay, so this is weird and still pretty intimidating, but not bad.

Different but not bad.

Pascal's knees twitch and he pulls away to shoot her a warning stare,

"If you squash my head, I am going to kill you." He doesn't even think about the words until the girl snorts with laughter and then proceeds to dissolve into giggles and something about that loosens some of the tension in him, letting a slightly crooked grin curl at his lips.

Most of the time, he hates it when she laughs at him. This time, though, it's gratifying.

Hubert leans down again and hums a little bit before sticking out his tongue to taste, licking a tentative stripe from bottom to top, dipping briefly into her pussy on the way up and making sure to catch the little nub that makes her gasp and stop breathing on the way down again. It's where she seems to be the most sensitive, and he decides to focus his attention there for a while until gasps turn into something that sounds almost like a sob. Hubert freezes instantly.

"…Pascal?" he ventures and glances up, only to cut himself off in shock.

"_Please_," Pascal makes that funny noise again, her hands clenched white-knuckled in the blankets, the gold of her eyes but a thin ring around blown pupils, "Please, please, don't—don't _stop_, keep going—that's—"

The concern that formed a chunk of ice in his gut, albeit a small one, thaws and slips away like slush in spring.

"Your wish is my command," he repeats with a grin and returns to that spot, fiddling with it with his tongue and enjoying all too much the way Pascal's trembling around him, her breaths a little shallow and the noises… Oh, the sounds that are coming from that girl are almost better than the reactions themselves. He can't tell whether they're gasps or moans or sobs or something between, and Pascal is surprisingly quiet about it, considering how much of a loudmouth she's been so far.

Louder than him, certainly, and Hubert didn't know what he'd expected, except that it's really, really hot and he wants more of it.

"Hu," she says shakily, "You—your fingers, too."

"Aren't you bossy," Hubert replies but obliges, replacing his tongue with his fingers and returning to laving tauntingly at her hole. She's hotter than she started and he can feel her fighting to not just slam her legs closed on him with every move he makes. He enjoys this, he realizes with a start. It should be dirty and horrible and kind of repulsive but he really, really likes doing this, likes the way she wants it just as badly, judging by the she just keeps getting wetter and the way his name keeps spilling from her lips like all her spells, high and breathy and just as magical.

It's easier to find that special spot with his fingertips and Hubert pushes back against it, rubbing at it and slipping his free hand around to brace the small of her back, holding her close. Pascal curls around him, wrapping her arms around all of him she can reach and holding him tight, whispering a constant stream of words, shocking few of them actually obscene but all of them encouraging, consisting mostly of _please_ and _that's it_ and _don't you dare stop_ and he has no intention of stopping, not until he gets to watch her fall apart and pick up all of her pieces.

And then, when they feel like it, they can do it again.

Just to see what happens, Hubert slides his finger down to slip inside her pussy, tentatively at first and then with more courage when Pascal just tightens her grip on him and gasps into his hair, red and white mingling with blue.

"That's—Hu, you're _awesome_, that's awesome!"

She's so tight, tight and wet and hot, and Hubert starts a slow, experimental thrusting motion with his hand, adding another finger, and her nails scrabble along his back and shoulders. It's a bit too soon to go again but nevertheless, Hubert's cock gives an interested twitch and Hubert knows that if he could, he'd be getting hard again.

And that's something he's never considered before.

He knows that he likes things fair, likes to give back in equal measure, but to get just as much pleasure from giving as from receiving…well, that's just too much to pass up. That will be something to experiment with at a later date.

Because he _knows_ that this will be happening again.

For now, though…

Slim fingers grip him by the hand and push him in deeper and Hubert gapes at the sound that comes out of her mouth, a pleased, keening moan that shoots down his spine and pools in his belly.

"F-fuck!" And that's actually the first obscenity that comes out of her and Hubert's honestly a little surprised but he rolls with it, following the rhythm she wants for him. She knows what she's doing and Hubert's honestly incredibly grateful for that; he doesn't know what he'd do if she had no idea what she liked. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he couldn't manage to do this for her. Oh, they'd learn eventually but this is so much easier for everyone involved. "Hubert, you know—"

He also honestly thinks that she's incapable of being quiet about anything.

"This is so much better than when I do it," she pants, still holding his hand by the wrist, "Your hands are—haaa, bigger than mine!" She grins and grinds her hips against him, "A lot bigger. Think this is what it'd be like if you—" she cuts off with another quiet gasp and continues, every word sending bolts of lightning over Hubert's skin, "If you fucked me? You're even bigger than your hands, it'd be _awesome_, Hu, amazing. Please, Hubert, I'm gonna want you to fuck me until I beg for it— Even just your fingers are making me feel so _full_, like it's too much but it's _perfect_ and I never want to let you go."

Hubert stifles a groan of his own as Pascal cuts herself off and her words get faster, more frantic, more…everything, until it's little more than a steady stream of commentary, quick and bubbling, and he's sure that he hears the word _love_ more than once and that more than anything is what inspires him to pull himself up to sit between her legs, his fingers still inside her, and wrap his arm around her shoulders to pull her close to him, bare skin on bare skin.

"Hu, I'm close—Just a little more, a little bit more, please, you've gotta!"

"Don't worry, I'll get you there," and it's only when the words are out of his mouth that Hubert realizes that she was the one to say them first and he doesn't even care.

He pulls his fingers out of her, a move that inspires a half-sob of loss, and it's with a fantastic, spectacular, half-baked idea that has him whispering in her ear,

"You are the most amazing, beautiful person I've ever seen in my life, and I'm never going to let you go," all the while touching that one spot that seems to make her insane.

And Pascal falls apart.

Her legs slam and clench around his hips and the girl lets out a full on sob of…something as she shakes and curls into him with her eyes shut tight, burying her face in his shoulder and riding it out. Hubert keeps touching her through it, alternating from rubbing to thrusting his fingers in and out of her and back to rubbing again until she stills and abruptly whimpers like it hurts and bats his hand away.

"S-sorry—" he starts, and she shakes her head.

"No, no, it's—it's fine. Always like— It just," Pascal has to break off thanks to breathing heavy, "It's always oversensitive afterwards. Hurts a little."

And Hubert's going to remember that for future reference because that's kind of really important.

Hubert feels an increase of liquid on his hand and waits until she's not so much of panting wreck before he retracts it fully, wiping it off on his pants (they're already disgusting anyway, what's some more mess?) to pull her into a proper, full-bodied hug. He can feel the aftershocks running up and down her frame and he doesn't think anything about tilting her head up and kissing her. It's rather chaste, all things considered, but that's okay, because she leans into him and kisses him back with a smile on her face.

It's stunning, seeing her like this now. Pascal's gone quiet and she's content to kiss him, slowly and carefully and lazily, and Hubert just wants to take care of her now when she's letting him take all of her weight, just because she knows he'll take it.

Amber eyes close again and Pascal cuddles into him and Hubert realizes that he's scratching soft, gentle patterns on her shoulders in a way that always makes him calm even when her arms twined around his waist burn on his skin like something he wants to keep forever.

"Are you okay?" he finally manages to ask. Pascal opens her eyes and blinks dazedly at him.

"Yeah, I'm—I'm fine. I'm fine." She smiles. "Just a little tired. That actually kind of wore me out."

"Do you, uh, want to take a nap or something?" Hubert asks her, "If you're tired, it wouldn't be a bad idea."

"That's actually a fantastic idea," Pascal replies and wriggles a little bit in his arms to scoot down a little ways, adjusting her bra back to rights as she does so. "A nap is always a good idea." That, of course, only reinforces Hubert's notion that Pascal is, in essence, a cat. She does look tired, though, and he thinks that maybe it's just as well that he suggested the nap; a few hours from now it'll be time for dinner, and if she wants to sleep she probably ought to, even though Hubert would much rather stay.

He reluctantly pulls himself away to slide off the bed, until—

"Where are you going?" Hubert turns to see Pascal propped up on her elbows, looking more than a little bit hurt. Hubert blinks.

"I thought you wanted to take a nap…" he says, slowly, and Pascal reaches out to grab his hand.

"You could always stay," she offers with a hesitancy that he hates, "If you wanted. The bed's big enough. There's plenty of room."

And _oh_, he's a giant idiot, having to have things spelled out like this. Hubert bites his lips and nods, sliding closer again.

"Alright," he answers, "I could use a nap, myself." Beaming at him, Pascal hauls up the blankets and scuttles underneath them until she's cocooned herself in them like an Amarcian burrito. Hubert has every intention of following her, until he realizes something and freezes. "I—uh, I'll be right back." Pascal frowns. "I just—" he makes a gesture to his pants. The last thing he wants to do is sleep in his own mess and he cannot see that working out well after it dries and just—no. "I'm just going to change." He also kind of wants to brush his teeth because after a few hours of sleep? One more thing that's not gonna be pretty.

"I guess," she finally agrees, side-eyeing him more than just a little bit. "Whatever makes you happy." There's still something off in her voice, like she's not entirely sure that he'll actually come back, and Hubert chases it away by leaning forward unexpectedly and kissing her twice, once on the lips and once more on the forehead, before hurrying out to change.

When he comes back in a new pair of underpants (he couldn't find his sleeping pants and it's not like she hasn't already seen him in them before), Pascal's still under the blankets but has at some point located a pair of panties (a different pair, because they don't match her bra and Hubert will never forget that for as long as he lives) and when Hubert slides underneath the covers she reels him in the rest of the way, curling up and plastering herself against his back.

Hubert twitches.

"Why are you the big spoon?!" he sputters after a moment.

"Because I want to be." Pascal's answer comes all too matter-of-fact, like it shouldn't even be a question.

"And you always get what you want?"

Hubert can feel her smile into his shoulder blades as she presses herself as close as she can get underneath the covers, her lips brushing his shoulders, his back, the nape of his neck. She doesn't even need to answer because he already knows what it is. He could have answered it himself.

Of course she does.

"You know," she says after a moment of silence, because he thinks there's a physical limit to which she can actually be quiet, "You were amazing, Hubert." And what else can Hubert respond with other than a slightly baffled _thank you?_ "I don't want to have to save the world again to make this happen again. But I will if I have to."

Really, there's nothing else Hubert can do but roll over to face her, slinging his arms around her shoulders and pressing her curves into all the places that need them. He buries his face in her hair and lets out a whuffing breath.

"Are you crazy? You think I drove myself up the wall just so I can walk away? Not happening," he informs her, feeling Pascal relax in his arms and cuddle closer. "This is happening again," he decides, "And again. And again, and again, and as many times as we want it to happen."

Because to be honest, he can't imagine feeling safer right now, more relaxed, more loving, more loved. And he never wants those feelings to go away.

"I want it to happen again," Pascal peeks up at him underneath their blanket cave, "Maybe a lot again."

"Then we will do it a lot again," Hubert declares with the same pomp that he gives orders, and he thinks that he's going to want a bit more practice and then, he thinks, he's going to see how she feels about maybe stepping it up further. Somehow, he doesn't think she'll be complaining but it's always better to ask.

"Not just sexy stuff," Pascal tells him reasonably, "I want to hold your hand and kiss you when I want to and go on dates, too. That okay?"

"More than okay." And Hubert's surprised at how much vulnerability she's showing just from that, like it's not problem at all yanking clothes off but asking for a steady romance…like that's the hard part. How could she ever doubt? "I want that too. Just… let's just hold off on kissing in public, shall we?" It somehow seems a little bit crude, "Or in front of Asbel. It might make his brain explode."

Oh, his poor, dense brother.

Hubert has little desire to go declaring his relationship status to everyone he meets, not because he's ashamed but because he thinks that it's no one else's business, and if Asbel finds out? He'll never _shut up_.

"…can I tell Captain Malik?"

"Tell whoever you want to," and Hubert means that, because he's not ever going to be the one to control her and he knows that she and Malik are better friends than people remember (they have regular drinking outings and he knows that most of those end with the two of them singing loudly in front of a cheering crowd, all drunk off their skulls), and he knows better than to think he has some kind of chain on her even though he has her heart and a taste of her body. "I'm not asking you to keep quiet about it like it's some dirty secret…just from Asbel. Because so help me, he's marrying Cheria within the year or I'm going to _strangle_ him."

Pascal beams at him.

"You know," she says after a moment of deliberation, "I think it sounds fun to keep it on the down-low for a bit. You know, like we know something awesome that they don't know. And we do!"

And, well, he's not going to complain about that. Pascal covers up a yawn soon and slowly runs her hands up and down Hubert's sides, his shoulders, his back, until even his breathing begins to slow and his eyes feel stupidly heavy, and he never wants to leave this place if it means leaving her.

"You know, Hu," and really, he can't figure out whether she says that to preface something horrifying or wonderful, and he thinks he ought to care but he really doesn't, "I'm gonna rock your world."

Somehow, Hubert can't box that statement into just referring to things of a carnal nature and, even so…

He doesn't doubt it at all.

* * *

AN2: AND THERE YOU HAVE IT. ALMOST 15.5K OF PORN AND FEELINGS. Well, I feel fulfilled. If you've got any feedback to give me, be it praise of judging stares or declarations of challenge, please, I accept all comers. Leave me a review to let me know how you liked this; it only takes a second and it's super helpful to the author.


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